Bullets
by VioletLolitaPop
Summary: Track 4: We can wash down this engagement ring with poison and kerosene.
1. Track 1

Notes: Um, fem!Russia, first person POV, Sin City'esque narration (because despite the reason why this is being posted, I'm pretty sure I was watching it while writing). Slightly Auish? Do I have to warn about character death if it's offscreen and happens to other characters?

**xxx  
Romance  
xxx**

It's the chill that lets me know.

That sudden drop in temperature that would pass by undetected to anyone else in an already freezing climate gives me the edge I need to be one step ahead. So I wait, listening the non existing crush of rubble underneath barely falling foot falls all the while taking in deep breaths to make it seem as though I'm still sleeping.

I hear the nearly inaudible movement of her coat rustle against the leather of her glove as she reaches a holster strapped to her thigh. Footsteps that still barely make any noise as they pas against the gravel move closer while the sound of the hammer being pulled into position clicks.

I move my chest up and down, breathing deeply, keeping appearances up.

"You are not sleeping."

The corners of my lips twitch like they would in a polite response to a bad joke before my eyes start to crack open.

The world's caked with a layer of grim and distorted by a hair line crack in the right of my glasses. The only thing stopping me from taking them off for a good cleaning is knowing that any unplanned movement could leave me without my ace in the hole.

Staring down the barrel of a pistol also helps.

I shift my weight indifferently, making it seem like I'm just getting into a comfortable position to die by the hands of the ashen haired beauty in front of me. A hand behind my clenches at a cylinder, a single finger reaches the top and slides around a button.

"What's a pretty girl like you," I say, "doing in a place like this?"

Her lips curl up into that sweet smile she loves to show off, making her violet eyes squint a little more closely together.

"Flatter is not always the best way to be getting out of a situation, Amerika," she smiles. "Another with less patience might have pulled the trigger and done away with that bothersome mouth of yours."

I grin right back up at her and pull out the detonator clear in the open. "Now is that any way to treat an ally?"

Her eyes widen at the sight of the cylinder and in less then three seconds, they dart from crevices to niches all over, finally seeing the bundles of C4 and sticks of dynamite set up and ready to blow.

There's a quick twitch of her lips that signals her smile about to fall, but in seconds it becomes even more fierce and a brightness hits her eyes in a way I hadn't seen for a long while. She drops her weapon down to her side just as she throws her head back, her long mane of silver locks flying along with the motion as a harsh spills from her lips.

"Filled with such surprises," she says after her amusement subsides and she places the pistol back into its holster. "As always."

"Well, Russia, you know me," I say and lift myself up. "If I'm gonna fall, I sure as hell'm gonna take as many of them as I can."

"I will ever understand why you must be so dramatic."

"Just makes life a little more interesting."

"Yes, because life is not at all interesting enough."

I ignore the sarcastic remark and straighten myself out instead. I give the surroundings a quick scan, noting how the snow had stopped falling since I first decided to make a rest zone out of a small cavern just some feet above the ground in this mountain valley. I lean over real quick to pick up the pack I dragged up with me, hidden behind a pack of rocks and open it up, ready to load everything back in and set out once more.

"If I may be allowed to indulge in my own curiosity," Russia begins after too much silence. "How did Amerika find himself in such a place and by himself, no less?"

"Now that's a long story. Besides, what're you doing out here anyway?" I ask instead. "I thought I told everyone to meet in Mexico."

"And yet you yourself have barely made any progress to Mexico's home," she answers crisply. "Mexico had been very distraught when I did arrive and you were still nowhere to be found."

"Yeah, well it's not exactly easy to go anywhere when I've got that fucker above me nowadays."

Russia tilts her head thoughtfully as I go around collecting an explosive here and there, measuring up the damage each one could do on its own instead of the collaborated beauty I had planned for just in case.

"Your brother is attempting to invade again," she states. "I did hear that would happen from Italy after the news of England's defeat reached us. Though I do wonder when you were planning to bring this to our attention?"

I brush off the tense feeling I get nowadays whenever someone mentions England and lie through my teeth. "I was gonna tell everyone when I got to Mexico."

She sees right through it. "I am sure."

I set everything by the pack and take my time to stack everything up carefully enough so that when the going gets rough, nothing'll bother everything inside.

"So Italy got caught by you guys then?" I ask her, wanting to get away from the Canada subject.

"Yes," she responds gleefully. "I had been even given the opportunity to question him myself while he was in my people's hands."

"Was?" I pause to stand back up once everything's ready to go. "Where is he now?"

That smile came back. "Rotting some feet below the earth by now, I am sure."

With the pack strapped on to my back and the rest of the area cleared out with little more than a nasty surprise left behind for any invaders looking for shelter against the snow, I smile back at her. "Good to know."

"So did Italy spill anything else before croaking?" I ask while leading her down to the mountain's base and toa nother small cavern where my White Knight was kept.

"I am afraid not. You see, while he carried on in gloating over your mentor's downfall and went into greater details of Canada tearing your entire being apart, my finger slipped on the trigger of the revolver pointed at his head."

I stop walking just so that I could turn back to her.

"Your fingers slipped?" I ask.

Her eyes close as she smiles. "That is correct."

It's a lie, but there's no sense in calling her out on it when I just lied myself. So I let it go, face foward again and go back to marching in the snow.

It isn't until we reach the damn thing when I notice that she's been following closely, not straying off in another direction for her own bike and figure it to be something weird.

"Where's your bike?" I ask her.

"Hm?" she sounds innocently. "What bike do you speak of?"

"Your White Knight. I know you can do this creepy thing where you can just find me anywhere but how else would you get here?"

"Silly, Amerika," she giggles. "What fun would it be to tell you such information?"

My eyes narrow up into her own shining pair that tell me nothing. I break the contact first, spinning on my heel and sweep the flimsy piece of plastic covering off the machine before doing a half-assed job of packing it away with my bag in the basket hitched at the back. I look back at her while getting ready to mount the damn thing, only to see her still watching, practically waiting for the invitation.

"Get on," I half order, and without missing a beat, Russia follows it.

The road south takes more time to travel than it should. We choose the long route, through the narrower valleys cut in between the towering piles of rock and snow, all to avoid the main paths and slip by undetected. It doesn't matter that this is my home, not anymore. Anyone can be lurking behind any given corner. We've all learned /i/that/it/ the hard way.

I glance back, seeing that Russia's decided to ride while leaning back, gripping at the thin side bars to keep herself steady. I keep doing it every now and then, and each time I do, she makes a big show of putting even more distance between us, leaning further back and making it seem as if shes ready to fall at any moment and does nothing but smile back.

"Are you comfortable back there?" I cal out to her after another check.

She responds instantly. "As comfortable as one can be."

"You'd probably be a lot better off if you leaned forward more."

"But if I were to do such a thing, there would be nothing for me to be holding on to."

She must be going through a phase of dragging out invitations from me. A very annoying phase.

"You can hold onto me," I offer.

"What was that?"

I hate her.

"Just, wrap yourself around my waist or something, I don't want you to fall back and then have to stop just so you can get back on!"

I keep my eyes looking forward as I feel her shift forward slowly, making sure she keeps herself steady while inching closer and soon enough I feel her hands at my waist.

"So kind of you to be inconveniencing yourself for my own comfort," she says in a low tone against my ear. She leans in the upper half of her body closer, barely pressing the swell of her breast against my back. "Though one would think it to be suspicious for you to offer your waist when your shoulders would be adequate enough support."

"That would get in the way of my driving," I excuse.

I can hear the smile in her voice. "Of course."

I hate her.

She shifts back a little, readying the lower half of herself to be just as close as the rest of her body. Before she's able to go any further though, the crack of a rifle being shot off echoes through the valley and a bullet tears straight through the skin and muscles of my left shoulder before lodging of-so-comfortably against the bone.

The hit forces me into a whiplash that knocks Russia into the snow with myself following. The White Knight keeps going even without anyone at the controls, right up until it crashes against a mountainside that needed a sharp turn to avoid. The hit throws us both off, I lay there panting in the snow as blood seeps out of the wound and soak into the ice beneath me. I barely register Russia crawling over to my body and her rummaging through the inside of her coat before another crack echoes in the canyon and she falls forward.

For a moment, the pain in my shoulder's forgotten as I cry out her name and surge forward, rolling her over onto her back and into my lap. Her eyes are wider and she's breathing harder than normal. Though that's probably more from the shock of being hit as there is no blood coming out from the wound.

"I am fine," she says. "The bullet.. It has hit the back of my vest."

"You're wearing a vest?"

"Yes, much like you should have been!" she shouts at me while pulling out the pistol from before along with another one strapped to her thigh. "Are you able to shoot?"

"Does it matter?" I ask her while trying to move the injured arm as much as possible, just to see. "I can move it just fine."

She sits up quickly and rips a piece of cloth off from the bottom of her coat. "We must wrap it before you lose too much blood."

"No time."

She ignores me, and with weapons still in hand she creates a make shift tourniquet to stop the bleeding. By the time she finishes, there really is no time left.

We both stand up silently, watching as a good twenty something masked gunmen come out of hiding from random niches in the mountainsides. They make their way downwards as we move closer together, preparing for a fight.

"Another ambush," I mutter and pull out my own weapon from my holster while my injured arm does it's best to reach for the one hidden under my jacket.

Russia gives me a quick sideways glance. "Another?"

"You sound surprised."

"Only half."

They creep closer to us, ready to form up a tight circle to keep us from escaping.

"I wouldn't know why," I tell her.

"It keeps life interesting."

The safeties come off.

"And life isn't interesting enough."

Russia fires first, the starting bullet lodges into the head of a poor soul that was just unlucky enough to be the first casualty. The retaliation is instant.

The bullets start flying and we start running. There's nowhere for us to take cover, the valley is narrow and anywhere either one of us could have used for shelter is blocked by one of them/ Our only option is to keep moving, keep dodging, which is done easily enough. Anything too quick is either blocked by Russia's vest or I just use my bum arm to take the hit as a last resort.

We end up separating, both on opposing sides of the makeshift battleground, dividing and conquering. We're nearly half through them when it all goes to hell.

The rifle makes it's appearance again, by sound, same as before. The target this time is Russia, the bullet aimed at her Achilles tendon, forcing her down into the snow and ready to be pounced on. It distracts me from keeping myself safe, letting one of them shoot up the rest of my injured arm and another to shoot out the other weapon out of my good hand along with a good chunk of it.

Russia kicks with her good leg and fires off at anyone who tries to get near her. They do get to her though, once she runs out of ammo. They pile on her, keeping her down just enough to stick her with a syringe and fill her up with something that weakens her movements. Then they come at her with something tie her up, keep her still.

I try to make my way to her and I'm almost able to. Even without the use of my hands I can still shake them off, I can still break free. But one of them grabs on from the back of my neck, I feel a needle being plunged into my skin. The same stuff they dosed Russia with flows right into me. It's fast acting, whatever it is. In almost no time at all I start to move slower, I'm not able to push them off as quickly, as strongly as I could. They bind me together just like Russia.

Then comes the clincher. The sound of the one voice I haven't been able to stomach since England was thrown to the dogs.

"Not bad for a couple of old duffers."

In comes Sealand, and like always Latvia follows behind him, obviously the one to have been playing sniper by the way he caries the rifle. Either way, it's not something I really want to deal with right now.

"Don't hurt her anymore than she already is," Sealand orders as he comes closer. "She can't undergo anything if too much of her is newly regenerated."

"You're given some pretty big assignments for just a little kid," I goad.

My words cause something in him to tense up. He completely bypasses Russia with a wimple wave at Latvia to deal with her instead and stands right in front of me.

"You're in no position to insult me," he tells me. Ever since he got "older" from taking over the entire UK, he's gotten an even shorter temper.

"I'm not insulting anyone," I shoot back at him. "I'm just stating fact... kid."

"I am not a kid anymore."

"You got taller, but that don't mean a thing."

"I'm a nation now."

"You're a lackey."

"I earned my title, I don't know what you're insinuating."

"You think I don't know?" I ask him. "That the only reason you got where you are is because you turned England's brothers against him? And then turned on them by siccing that mute lapdog of yours on them? You didn't do a damn thing yourself to earn what you claim."

Something in hip snaps. Sealand reaches for the front of my jacket and pulls me out of my captor's hands before taking his own weapon to my face. He strikes the barrel across each cheek a few times before letting me fall to my knees in the snow.

"Canada said we had to keep you intact to get to Russia," says Sealand. "Well, we have her now so as far as I'm concerned, we can do whatever we want to you now. I suggest you show me some respect."

I hawk a mouthful of blood out onto the snow and smile up at him.

"Is that the best you can do, you pansy?"

The echo of his bullet goes on for so long that I hear it even after I've hit the floor.

There's a fierce throbbing pain in the bottom of my gut, copper fills my mouth and my vision starts to go. Little by little, my eyes start to drop, and all I can hear is Russia struggling harder against her captors before there's a sold thud of what can only be the butt of Latvia's rifle against the back of head and then nothing.

My fingers twitch, my leg shakes. I want to get up, I try to get up, but my body's too heavy. It won't move an inch. The acid from my stomach starts to pour out, starts to feed on my other organs and the only thing I'm able to do is listen to to the two set of footsteps crunch through the snow right up to me.

"Shoot him in the head," Sealand orders.

Latvia follows it and everything goes quiet...

...

...My eyes flash open. A dull throb in my chest where a thick ended syringe stands straight out like an eye sore pulses through my senses. Every little piece of my body is on a sensory overload, and it's only when the realization that I'm definitely not alone do I even bother to calm down.

"Be calm," an order comes a little too late. "They got you bad."

I try to blink the world into focus while my breathing regains its usual pattern. It doesn't work. By now there should be some kind of sign that says my vision is coming back after being knocked around like that, but all that's there is the same distorted fuzz of colored botches that should be objects and people.

"My glasses," I mutter. "Where's Texas?"

"Here!"

Another blurred out figure leans over and continues to speak. "Lot of damage to them, but I fix good enough. Right lens has big crack down middle, sorry."

"It's not a problem," I say and reach out for them, clutching the lenses as soon as the metal frame hits the palm of my hand.

I shove them on, not even caring how I was already making smudges on the clean surfaces and griming them up again. Not even a blink needed my sight to come back to me. The first thing to confront are those that helped me out of Death's grip.

Just by their voices I knew they're a woman and a man, and by their accents, I'm already pretty sure who it is. It's a small victory to be right.

Dressed in her dark green battle gear, Vietnam had blood up to her elbows, right where her sleeves were pushed up. Next to her was a bowl of every bullet that hit me with all sorts of surgical tools thrown inside and a small pile of cloths and gauze. Her medical pack was still opened, giving view to the other supplies stashed around.

South Korea sits closer to my side, dressed in the same get up but with the lack of the same air given off by his sister. I'm pretty sure it's the cowlick that throws off his game.

I stare at them and they stare back, waiting for me to say something.

"Mind getting this thing outta me?" I ask, nodding to the adrenaline shot still poking out from my chest.

Vietnam moves forward without any hesitation. "Stay still," is all she says before taking the end of it into her hands.

There's no mercy when she does it. The needle dislodges from my skin with a sharp rip and the dull throbbing intensifies to an even greater pain. It hurts so bad I can't stop a grunt from coming outta the back of my throat. Even Korea flinches at his sister's actions.

"Why like that?" he asks.

"He was stupid," she answers. "Makes him remember for next time."

"Can't make any promises," I grin while working a hand up to touch the bandage around my head, "but I'll try to keep from dying next time."

Vietnam instantly smacks it away. "Don't poke at head, it not fully healed yet."

She does some more patchwork on me while I scope out the surroundings. The two obviously dragged me into another cavern that must've been close by to where we were ambushed. It's smaller than the one I took shelter in earlier but just as efficient.

"What're you two doing out here anyway?" I ask once the medical stuff's over and done with.

"Cuba say that Canada maybe plan to use Sealand and Lativa to make big plan for something," Vietnam tells. "He ask me and Korea to spy before they make contact with your brother instead of travel to Mexico with others. We follow them for some time already."

Stupid asshole, I scoff internally. I thought I made it clear he couldn't make an order like that under any circumstance. "And what's France doing in all this?"

They don't say anything. Vietnam looks away, and Korea takes up the explanation.

Officials take France away," he says. "To put with China."

Vietnam stands up suddenly. She walks to the cave entrance and makes a big show of scanning the nearby area from her sniper scope. Korea and I just stay quiet. It was one thing to mention China, but to also hear how France ended up in the same place as him; a girl's heart could tonly take so much.

"We need go to Mexico," she says. "Meet with everyone else already."

"Sealand and Latvia are taking Russia to Canada," I say and stumble up myself, the strength in my body barely coming back to me. "We need to get her back before we do that."

"Russia is strong woman," Vietnam says. "She will take care of herself."

"You didn't see how they took her down."

"America," Korea begins, "We see how you two fight with enemy, we see those they have with them."

"Then you saw how Sealand's gotten a lot stronger since he took over England's territory," I tell them. "If they keep her under 'till they reach their rendezvous with Canada, it's a high chance we won't see her again."

The wind howls through the cavern, echoing out a light wail that sings into the pit of my stomach. From the looks of the other two, they feel the sense of foreshadowing of what would come if we left Russia behind.

"He is right, sister," Korea says quietly. "If Canada make her like other two, we lose big ally."

"We have no one else," stresses Vietnam, not wanting let down the argument. "With only three, we all be made same like Ukraine and Belarus."

"That's not true," I say. "Not with an ace in the hole."

"What is that?" Vietnam asks.

"Just that this my land," I tell 'em. "Nobody should know what these mountains hide better than me, right?"

Vietnam looks on at me in disbelief. Korea smiles.

It doesn't take long for Vietnam to pack away an old CB radio she keeps strapped to the back of her White Knight before climbing on herself and tells us to do the same. Another hour or so of our time had been taken to get into contact with of the fifty secrets I've been keeping from all the others and find out Sealand and Latvia's location. Another 30 minutes to get our strategy down and now there's none left to spare.

Vietnam takes the lead on the trail with Korea and me following behind. She hadn't been too keen on letting me share a bike with her, and it doesn't really bother me since I wanted to know more about what happened with France. Where I most likely wouldn't get any information out of her, I could get it from her brother.

"I don't know much," he confesses after making sure the distance between us and his sister is large enough for her to not overhear. "But I hear from Hong Kong before Japan take him, that China find out something about wars that he should not have and that is reason why they put him away some place. I think same thing happen to France. When he call Vietnam, he tell her that he now understands, he knows why England lost and why everything happens."

"What was it? What did he say?"

Korea shakes his head. "Vietnam say that the call was cut off, that it was all he could say before line go dead. Next we hear from Germany that France is taken too before he faint. Oh! I should tell you that Germany is with Greece now. Yeah, he is not doing too good, only got away from Poland just barely."

"Great," I moan. "This is just what we need, Germany's out of commission and France is locked away with China for God knows what reason."

Korea shifts uncomfortable at the front while the wind whips right by us, I can see it in his posture that he wants to say something. I almost tell him to spit it out, but he beats me to it.

"I think I know reason why," he starts out. "When I last see China, he say that nothing is real. He say that he thinks that we see things that are not true. That everything is wrong with the fighting, it is too fake."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. But he was taken away after that."

"And what? You think France thought the same thing?"

"Why else he get taken too?"

"Who else have you told this to?"

"No one. I am the only one who know, not even Hong Kong. He only know that China find something important. China told me to keep this secret. That he would find proof for everyone when he can and tell when that happens."

His head turns back to give me a glance, in a way that seems like he's just making sure that I hears what he said before he turns back ans asks, "What you think it means?"

I'm not sure what to tell him, I hardly know what any of this means myself. From what I can tell, he's telling me that China figured that there was something wrong going on in the world, something wrong with the reasons behind all the fighting, and then claimed that nothing is really what it seems and tried to figure more of the puzzle out. Which he obviously did since his superiors put him away in a place that none of us could reach, all under the guise of wanting him to be in a safe place when the bombings over Beijing happened.

Is it possible that France went down the same path, tried the same thing? There's no other reason he would suffer the same fate.

No matter how rough things got in all the fighting, nobody's government actually took the time to make sure their Rep was in a safe and secure location. Everybody knows that, so why tell the lie?

"We'll figure it out later," I tell him, and the conversation ends there.

Vietnam slows her speed when we finally reach the two mile mark and Korea does the same, parking his bike next to hers and lets me off. I give them both last minute instructions before Vietnam warns me to be careful and I watch them speed off in another direction until they're no longer within my sight.

I face forward and being to trudge through the leftover slush of snow disturbed by those taking shelter from coming night. In a little more than an hour's time, if all goes according to plan, we'll be able to wipe their toy soldiers off the face of the earth and give a hard goodbye to the two puppets that control them.

**xxx**

-i remember i started this series because i finally completed my watchmen collection

-basically it was 10 one shots that were part of bigger and longer chapter fics that were dropped, scrapped, or i just never bothered to complete

-all of them are on my old computer, and i barely remember what they were going to be about

-so these are just little snippets of those worlds i guess. the only ones that were ever evolved into something more are chapters 7 and 8

-i'm gonna write that zombie au dammit. one day


	2. Track 2

Notes: idk. there were memes in these notes on instead of actual warnings so i'm pretty sure there's nothing big happening here.

**xxx **  
**Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two fo Us **  
**xxx**

He's watching them as they speak. Very discreetly, virtually unnoticeable, and yet all the same they know he does.

He knows they do.

From his position at the conference table, Russia does not exactly have a clear view of the two. In fact, it's only through his peripheral vision that he is able to see both America and England huddled together at their end, chairs scooted side-by-side, close enough so that their knees may knock together, and heads leaned inward towards one another. What it is they must discuss so privately with so much security, he is unsure. But he is most certain that he is involved.

England is a formidable spy, Russia credits, but not without his tells. Through careful observation of his counterpart, Russia notes the minuscule quirk of England's lip just there on the left when allows his intentional spying to become so blatantly obvious, and the eye scrunch that occurs whenever he follows through with an action that proves to be unfavorable for whatever reason.

America, however, makes no move of his own to measure the level of awareness Russia holds on their conversation. He's focused entirely on England, his attention rarely deviating, and wears a calm expression that carries nothing but politeness and a low level of amusement that never wavers. That in itself is telling, considering America's nature, and yet it's almost as if...

It's interesting, Russia will admit to himself as recognition dawns upon him and a corner of his lips twitch further upwards for a half-second. He keeps it in mind as he nods along with whatever it is that China happens to be saying to him and watches the way England dips his head in closer, the tips of his lips nearly brushing against the shell of America's ear. He spies Americas eyes flickering in his direction before returning as they were originally. Finally, the young blond gives, finally becomes obvious instead of the still rather obvious façade, though for an unknown reason.

Russia's grin grows a little long, and he feels as their eyes naturally lock in on the sight as it happens. Both pairs, both active, and he can honestly say that he is genuinely interested in whatever it is that is happening.

China's speech starts to falter with more pauses and gaps, and Russia can tell that he too understands that there is an underlying tension emanating from the now silent pair that bubbles up and slowly begins to consume all those around.

The room becomes stifling, to say the least, and quickly. The silence that has engulfed both England and America stretches the whole of the room, swallowing the conversation China had been attempting to make all together. The small puffs of their breathing are the only sounds, barely audible to their ears, that surround them as the urge to tug on collars becomes more insistent. Russia watches as China keeps his eyes lowered slightly, England tugs deeper into a frown and recedes back and then down again in a steady rhythm. America, however... America leans back into his chair, posture more relaxed than it had been only moments before with his hands folded across his belly, eyes softened and displays a small smile.

And suddenly, it's broken by America's boisterous laugh no less, cutting through the air and dispersing the uncomfortable aura that had threatened to envelope them. It also gives Russia a real reason to gaze off in America's direction, allowing him to bear witness to America rising from his seat and saunter over to him.

"You'd think with everything going on, there wouldn't be time for any awkward silences, huh?" he jokes, that practiced Hollywood grin beaming down at Russia once he makes it to the other's side. He clamps down on Russia's shoulder in an overly-friendly gesture and asks, "How you doing over here, big guy?"

And there it is. The opening play.

He senses China rising from his seat and vaguely hears the softly worded excuse the other gives when he walks from the room. The soft thumps of his shoes against the hard wood flooring echo dully in the sparsely furnished room as he reaches the door. The door closes behind him with a small /i/click/i/.

Not yet then, Russia assumes. No involvement wanted. Understandable. Their current affairs are barely coming to an end, and here, the youngest of them all, wishes to begin anew.

America takes no hesitation in taking over China's vacated seat, collapsing right into it and rearranges himself into a pose quite reminiscent to his precious one he held in his own, leaned back and hands folded.

"So," he begins, "Europe's coming along pretty swell, yeah?"

"I am certain England has been keeping you informed on such matters," Russia replies.

"I do what I can when it's possible," England cuts in lightly, nonchalantly.

America's quick, sharp laugh brings the attention back to him. "Can't help it if my attention's being called more East. Just kinda worked out that way."

"How is that /i/working/i/?" Russia asks. "If I may?"

America leans further back with a pleased expression written across his face, a perfect semblance of cat-canary. "Swell," he says. "Just swell. Me and the boys back home have a little something on the up-and-up that should fix all that up real good."

Oh, Russia realizes. So /i/that's/i/ what this is about.

Instead of making an inquiry, Russia calmly folds his own hands in his lap and gives America a pleasant smile, all in the appearance of being interested and awaiting more information. Because really, why would he know about any of that?

When it becomes obvious to America that Russia is not going to press the matter any further himself, he clears his throat and sits up a little more.

"Sure thing," he goes on. "It's not like any of the other stuff we've been using before. Nah, this is something big, something special. There's some real destructive force behind it. Guaranteed to be an end all of all end alls, if you get my meaning."

England is watching him while pretending to be preoccupied with some of the leftover paperwork for their conference before, the original reason behind them all being gathered. They're both gauging him for a reaction, and Russia is truly at a loss. To appear too enthusiastic may seem suspicious. To be apathetic to this freely given information, regardless of the fact that he has already been in the know of it, may reveal just that.

He settles somewhere in the middle, appearing a bit astounded at the news an replies with a note of approval before stating, "That is good to hear. I hope that you will make good use of it against the Japanese."

A small flash of something passes through America's eyes that does not escape Russia before it is hidden away by another one of the blond's bright smiles, disguising discovery with more falsifications. Russia frowns a bit inwardly. Was it too much a second of hesitation that has shown through? Or maybe it has been his level of apathy? Still a tad too much?

Nothing to be done of it now, Russia sighs to himself. In any case, the more pressing matter would be why are these two looking for something from him over this now? Had it been completed and the worked had not been received on his side as of yet? If that is the case, he must report back to his superior. They have much to complete as to even the playing field.

With a small bit of a struggle, Russia rises from his seat and England follows suit, prompting America to do the same. He keeps his back to England completely as he offers his hand to America.

"I really do wish you the best of luck with this... new development of yours," he tells the other as they're hands clasp. "Who is to say what it can bring in the coming years."

"Yeah," America agrees. "Let's see about that."

His grip around Russia's hand tightens just a fraction more, prompting Russia to do the same as their eyes remain locked on one another's, right up until Russia pills his hand back and America lets his own drop lest he be dragged a little closer to the other. Not once do their smiles fall, even as Russia's polite excuses for departing their company are made and his exit is taken.

"Well," England remarks the moment Russia is out the door. "It wasn't exactly the expected reaction. What do you think?"

America's plastered smile quickly pulls downward into a frown. He pivots and goes on to stalk back to his suitcase with the intention of packing up his belongings and finally leaving to have a small conference of his own with his boss.

"He already knows," America tells him. "Bastard already knows."

England's on the brink of asking how such a thing could be possible before the sudden understanding of the obvious makes itself known to him. "He has spies."

America drops his briefcase on top of the mahogany table with more force then necessary and beings to toss his files and pens haphazardly into the case and sneers in agreement. "I thought I was being careful. I was so sure that we wouldn't let any of them in while we did this. Fine. Fine! He wants to play this game, I can play."

With the last of his possessions stuffed along with the rest, America makes eye contact with England and promises. "I can play."

He slams the case shut and and an echo ripples through the room.

**xxx**

-retyping this i'm thinking that there wasn't a longer fic for this

-i don't think i had something for this track i really don't

-i honestly believe i just typed this up just to get to the third part which in itself took me over two years to finish and edit for posting


	3. Track 3

_Warnings_: Fem!America, AU, steampunkish which means they be all Victorianish, minor use of magic, Canada gets tortured a little bit, England's prolly dead, Russia and his household are undead, and that's about it.

**xxx  
****Vampires Will Never Get You  
****xxx**

It's the high pitch of the drawn out train whistle that stirs her from slumber.

Pale lashes flutter open, revealing blue irises still overcome with sleep that blink away rapidly, as though that in itself would be enough to rouse her completely. One hand raises up to push back the locks of blonde hair that had fallen out of place from behind her ear while the other goes into the air, stretches out the rest of her arm until the sharp crack that is her elbow snapping in place is heard.

"Oohh," she groans. "That is much, _much_, better..."

She jumps from her seat and goes through a routing of stretching out all of her limbs, releasing from the numbness of the long train ride before reaching for her luggage stored in the above carrier. She's unable to feel the worn suede of her knapsack beneath her dark brown leather gloves, nor the feel of the strap resting across her back and against her shoulder once she slips it over a thick beige wool overcoat. She checks her boots, making sure the laces are still tied together, and her reflection to the best of her abilities in the window. She rearranges her short hairstyle to keep it tucked behind her ears with nothing to keep it in place as it tumbles just a bit past her shoulders and makes certain that there are no trails of drool stemming from the corners of her mouth. All of this is done before she finally slides open her compartment door and walks out.

She paces the corridor just as the long mechanical wings begin to fold into themselves, the blots in their joints needing a good oiling if the sound of the creaks it makes are any indication, and scans the window just in time to see the front of the train approach the first sign of tracks as it descends down towards the station. The impact of wheels colliding with the steel and screeching forward as the rest of the cars adjust to the shift does nothing to her balance as she traipses down towards the exit.

"Eager, miss?" the conductor asks with a small smile as she approaches his position, clearly amused by her anticipation to land. He's a short fellow, blonder than she, with very kind eyes and an overall friendly aura that surrounds him.

She pauses in her walk to offer up some brief small talk with the man. There's no harm in doing so since the train has yet to come to a complete stop. In any case, his joking manner is very much welcomed after sitting in a lonesome compartment for hours.

"A bit, yes," she answers. "It's my first time in Ruskieva, let alone Cawlo."

The conductor's eyes brighten a bit, and his smile grows warmer. "For family, I take it?"

"Something of the sort." She laughs. "How could you tell?"

"The country's not much for tourism during the winter months," he says. "Never has bee. Little cities like this, even less so. Particularly this one."

"Oh, are you a local?"

"I am from here, but I've resided in a small town in LeGaulle for a few years now. Though, I don't think much has changed from the times I have stayed overnight."

"Would it be possible for you to help me with some direction, then? My brother and uncle keep insisting I can never find my way, and while I like to argue the point, I'd rather not take any chances."

Her statement gets a laugh out of him, a small one, but a laugh nonetheless as he nods in a positive response. "I'll do my best. Where is it that you need to go, miss?"

Another long whistle sounds out and the wheels coming to a low screeching halt is able to be felt through the flooring of the train. It slightly lurches forward, just enough to signal that it has finally made it to its destination and has come to a complete stop.

"I need to travel to Braginsky Manor," she tells, and his demeanor instantly changes.

His smile drops, his eyes narrow, and even though there is no semblance of hostility in the air, his body does tense with her words in fear.

"That place has been untouched for over a century," he says. "Why on earth would you ever go there?"

"I told you." A small smile plays on her lips. "For family."

The bustle of everyone collecting their belongings and exiting their compartments so they may depart the train breaks her out of the conversation and reminds her that time is of the essence. She shrugs in an uncaring manner towards the conductor as it appears that he is not going to be replying. She takes a few steps before he does speak up again, causing her to face him once more for the sake of hearing him clearly.

"Nobody journeys up there," he says. "Nobody ever wants to. I doubt you'll be able to have anyone willing to take you there, let alone find a way yourself."

"That's a shame," she huffs. "I was hoping to avoid the walk."

Another shrug followed by a half-hearted dejected sigh is her signal that she is ready to keep on her way, only amplified by the way the exits of the train are opened by workers on the outside. Before she's able to move on though, the conductor calls out to her once more with, "Who are you, exactly?"

A brighter grin than one she's shown before in their time spent talking shines through on her face as she mocks salutes and throws him a wink.

"America Jones! Demon Huntress from Albia!"

She pivots on her heel sharply and follows a group of those already boarding off. Not another word is spoken between them as she leaves. It's only when her feet hit the marble of the platform does she actually consider her choice of farewell. It most likely wasn't the best idea in the world to not only give a name that isn't an alias, but her occupation as well. Considering the status of her mission and how it should be along the lines of covert.

"Eh, it's still all fine," she mutters to herself. "Who can he tell anyway...?"

So, with that bit of reassurance to herself, America hitches up her bag and makes her way through the crows, ducking and dodging the cluster of people rushing for trains taking flight or for the lobby of the station. America slides through the masses easily enough and quick as ever, she's facing the biting wind of winter hitting her face now that she's away from the warmth of engines and other's body heat. She reaches into the folds of her coat and brings out a patched up cap with a low hanging visor. It fits snugly over her head and against her ears, keeping the warmth from seeping and the wind from affecting her too much before hitting the snow covered streets.

She by-passes the crowded family-run shops selling baked goods or other necessities for their everyday living and well-dressed ladies in their afternoon gowns, fur-lined cloaks, and elaborate hats who side step away from her on crowded sidewalks and murmur to one another behind their silk covered hands while giving her pointed looks. The gents in their dark coats and top hats raise amused eyebrows, but tip their hats to her upon making eye contact and she returns the greetings in her own manner with a small grin.

Her pace is steady, with light steps, taking a route she has memorized from studying maps before embarking on her journey, all the way to the center of the Main Square. She scans the area, standing stark still in the sea of people and tilts her head up to look beyond the roofs and past the chimneys of businesses and homes. It's there that she finds it, just behind the bell tower of the cathedral in the far off distance; an impressive manor that is clearly visible on its perch above the bustling city, nested in the hillsides covered in foliage and undisturbed snow.

America sighs heavily and readjusts the pack on her back. She steps away from the moving crowds and leans forward with her hand raised in the air. She calls a cab's attention to her and upon entering the back of the carriage, she gives the driver instructions to make for the outskirts heading further north. She offers double the pay if need be as some extra persuasion. She beams her brightest smile at the weary expression, and is nothing less than ecstatic when given an agreement. She leans back into her seat and makes herself comfortable for the ride.

By the time she's flagged the driver to pull over before crossing the halfway point towards the next city, it's begun to snow and near dusk. Though the driver is keen on continuing (not at all feeling comfortable with the idea of leaving a young woman, no matter how inappropriately attired, out in the middle of the woodland), America insists on stopping, even going as far as threatening to jump out of the moving carriage.

"It's perfectly alright," she laughs, already standing on the roadside and looking up at him. "This is exactly where I need to be."

"But, miss," he says, "to be out here alone? I was thinking perhaps your reason for travelling so far out from the city would be to meet with other company, maybe to even bring them back? You cannot stay, there are demons in these woods."

The lingering smile from her face goes from amused to something a little fiercer, showing too much teeth, particularly her canines. Her head tilts downwards enough so that she is able to look up at him from beneath the brim of her hat and says, "I'm well aware. That's why I said, this is where I need to be."

The cab driver, with fear plastered on his face, snaps the reins against the horses and turns the carriage around so quick that America could not help but laugh again. When the cab is long out of her sight, her laughter dies down to nothing more than a few amused chuckles and sighs. With her hands placed on her hips, she gives her surroundings a good scanning before turning to stare at the uphill struggle that will soon be her obstacle. New snow is falling, making it even more difficult than it would have been to begin with, and would certainly soak the fabric of her pants should she step in the wrong place. Still, America takes the first steps away from the well-traveled road and into the forestry.

Dusk settles in nicely during her hike, bordering on full evening and the snowfall has yet to give. America is more than certain that she has already trespassed on Braginsky's land, and those who are rumored to reside on said land should be more than capable to make an appearance in the outside world by this time. A little early, maybe, but a servant at the very least should have been sent to collect her.

"He has to know I'm on his property by now," she mutters to herself and puffs out a small breath of cold air. "I don't know if I could possibly-"

America cuts herself off. She senses a change in the environment. She closes her eyes and allows her other senses to take over, mentally enhancing them as she has been taught how to do so over the years and gathers every iota of information available. She hears distant footfalls crunching into the snow, she smells the clean air and frozen water and the scent of trees and something else... something warm and artificial - cologne, most likely - and she can barely detect the sound of hair rasping against a low hanging branch.

A man then. The servant she's been expecting.

Instantly, America feigns confusion, opening her blue eyes so they look larger than normal and begins to gnaw on her lower lip while turning in every which way as though unable to decide which way to keep progressing. She picks up a quiet, steady string of murmurs in a sickly sweet tone, continuously berating herself for ending up lost when it was supposed to be all so simple. She keeps the act going, even when those footfalls are clearly audible and she can feel a figure standing only some feet away. It's only when a small cough, which is distinctly meant to call her attention, cuts through the chilled air that she stops her ceaseless string of words and spins sharply to face them. Upon laying eyes on the newcomer, her eyes genuinely widen and she isn't able to hold back the sharp gasp of surprise.

Standing there at an impressive height is a broad shouldered man, skin as pale as the snow covering their surroundings and with hair the same shade of light colored ash hidden underneath the pitch black of a top hat, wearing a long white coat that covers everything the slight slivers of a black suit showing beneath. The only splash of real color is the faint pink of a length scarf wrapped around the base of his throat that accentuates the purple of his eyes standing out in great contrast. It takes America less than a second to recognize this man for what he is, and by the state of his dress - well tailored cut and high quality fabric - who he is, and that would be no mere servant.

Surely the one standing before her must be the master of the house, the legendary Braginsky heir who has succumbed to the vampiric attributes in his youth so many decades precious. America has only heard the talks and whispered rumors of the man throughout the course of her career and in the still of the nights of her childhood where England would frighten both her and Canada into bed with tales of a demon that preys upon the unsuspecting. Never before has she lain eyes on his image, other than the one instance, in the comfortable sanctuary of her home where England had produced the smoke-filled, grainy image filling his workshop as he scryed a premonition of impending doom.

It is part of the reason he had come here, dragging Canada with him for assistance, and because of the loss of communication has brought America to this place, standing before a person with no natural coloring nor the appearance of any warmth that she is usually able to detect in living beings.

America softens her eyes and releases the tension in her shoulders as she breaks out an easy going grin that shows nothing by relief. She retains the façade and traipses through the snow in a bit of a rush towards the other, causing the man's eyes to crinkle upwards in amusement as he softly smiles at her approaching form.

"Hello there! You don't know how glad I am to see another person," she laughs. "I think it is safe to say that I have lost my way."

There is still some distance between the two of them when she comes to a halt and receives a bow in greeting to which she offers a sort of half-curtsy-half-nod while laughing in return.

"I will never come to a complete understanding on how I should greet new acquaintances when dressed in such a manner," she confesses. "I am Kassandra Kirkland from Nodnol in Albia."

"Russia Braginsky," the other introduces. "And may I say that you are a far way from home."

Another laugh. "Yes, that is true. Only I've been attempting to visit with my mother for some time now. I finally though I would be able to do so and yet, there still seems to be some obstacle keeping me away."

"And where is it that your mother lives?" he asks. "If I may inquire after such. I must inform you that you have strayed too far from all paths in your journey."

"Did I really?" she asks innocently. America makes a show of looking around herself and sighs quietly. "I suppose I have. I had thought to save time by crossing through the woodland rather than take the winding path upwards to Hove. Not the best of my ideas, obviously."

"A simple misconception," replies Russia with a small smile. "But a rather dangerous one."

"I now gather. It's greater the luck for me for us to meet." She beams her brightest smile at him and ducks her head down in a coy manner. "I would be in your debt should you grace me with the assistance I need for returning on my way."

Russia turns his head skywards and takes a moment to observe the darkening clouds. Once he appears to be certain of something specifically, he returns his attention to America with another polite smile. "It's full into dusk, the night will soon set and the snowfall will only turn for the worse. I'm afraid those are no conditions for travel."

America sags her shoulders dramatically, fiddles with her fingers, and appears completely distraught. "If only I had enough to purchase transport of my own, I would not be in such a mess. What on earth shall I ever do?"

"My home is just above the ridge there." Russia takes a pause in his speech to turn halfway from America and gestures vaguely towards the direction of the manner. "I'm afraid our chance meeting is based purely on your accidental stumble on to my estate."

"Did I really?" America brings her hands up to cover her mouth, eyes opened wide in shock. "Oh, I had no idea! Please, forgive the trespass, I do not know whether you approve of uninvited visitors, but let me assure you that no offense is meant."

"No offense is taken," Russia assures. "Though as I was saying, my home is not far, and if you so wish, I would be willing to give you board for the night."

"But will that not be an inconvenience?"

"Not at all. In fact, I'm most certain my sisters will be thrilled to have female company. A brother can only be entertaining for so long."

"I would be glad to keep your sisters' company. Since my mother left Albia, I too have been starved of a female audience. It would be a pleasure, of course."

Russia sidesteps and graciously offers America to fall in place with him. With a large grin, she takes a step forward, and side by side, Russia leads them back to a semi-cleared road and the begin to pace forward towards his home. They reach the manor after an impressive stream of questions is asked of her. All of which America falsifies information for seamlessly, and upon arrival, she cannot help an awe like feeling swell within her.

It's not the size of the structure that strikes a chord within her, grand as it may be, but rather the design of the architecture. Four levels occupying a space that appears to be much smaller from the distance, all composed of red brick work to a dull yet still charming color from the ages of weathering against the elements. The old turrets and stone parapets of wall walks are still visible among the shingled peaks and slopes of added roofing throughout the generation. The wooden frame of windows have been kept as they would be of the original design, displayed openly with many an arrow slit hidden in the nooks and crannies of the walls.

There's no denying the beauty, and it's through America's own romantic creativity does she envision a drawbridge an moat that must have been a part of the home at one point in time, unable to refrain from smiling as thoughts of the childlike games her brother and herself would have imagined in their years of growing runs through her mind.

"It's beautiful," she says in complete honesty. America turns her head to catch her companion's eye, and as she does she is surprised to see utter contentment fill them.

"Thank you," the man replies. "It's a great relief to have my home to your approval."

He offers her his arm with an easy grin and she takes his offer despite the canniness of the action. She feels the ungodly chill of his skin seep through his coat and even through the thick leather of her gloves. America briefly wonders if the weather has any say in the matter as Russia leads the two of them through the stone-cobbled walkway surrounded by overgrown flowerbeds and a slightly unkempt lawn. While the state of his garden should have been off-putting, declaring a sort of something or other on his character, America can't help but find it morbidly enchanting when in contrast to the manor before them.

They stride up the walkway at a leisurely place, one step at a time. As they walk onto the front platform leading to the front entrance, the main door leading into the grand home is opened from the inside, revealing a small and timid looking young man with mousey brown hair. His wide green eyes carry slightly dark circles below that stand out entirely against his pale skin. He's dressed in plain work clothes and while ready to meet them, he does appear uneasy at the very sight of America.

"Master Russia," he greets. "I- You have brought a guest."

Russia does not address the statement immediately. Rather than give his servant any attention, he passes him entirely. He enters his home in a manner that America is quick to copy lest she fall out of favor. It's only when they are both situated comfortable within the entrance hall and already shedding his outer layer of clothing does Russia bother with his staff.

"Lithuania," he begins, "This is Miss Kassandra Kirkland, and I expect her to be treated with any and all forms of courteousness for the duration of her stay."

"Of course," is his reply, and immediately does his attention snap in America's direction and bows. "Miss Kirkland, I am more than happy to assist you in acquiring anything you may need to accommodate your stay."

Not a stickler for formalities, America does her best to reiterate a word of thanks and appreciation along just as Russia turns from them towards the direction of the staircase. His eyes curve upwards with his smile and America follows his line of vision to see a well-endowed woman dressed in dark blue descend the richly carpeted steps from the opposite side of the room.

She's fair in complexion, as well as fair in face. America isn't certain if she's seen a more beautiful woman, even with her hair worn plainly in a single braid wrapped around her head, it does nothing but allow her features to shine most prominently.

"Brother," she greets. "We have a guest?"

"Yes," replies Russia. "Ukraine, this is Miss Kassandra Kirkland. Miss Kirkland, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Ukraine."

Ukraine curtsies and America returns the gesture.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she says, and America again, returns the sentiment.

From there's she's taken to a sitting room, where after Russia leaves her company, Ukraine acts as her host and the conversation they have is mild, mostly regarding their interests and the weather.

It's in this time, when she's being served tea and a refreshment that America goes over what she has read before embarking on this mission. She did not look over the sheets regarding the servants more than once. She knows them by name – Misters Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia – how long they have been in servitude, and that they are no longer mortal. They pose no danger, though she has only seen the two, she does briefly wonder what Latvia Galante is like, perhaps she'll see later.

Ukraine Braginsky, is labeled dangers for the simple fact of her species, though she has been called docile. America readily believes the claim. She talks much of her garden, of how she wishes to keep pets, and how she particularly enjoys sunny days. She does not say it, but she is not very good at masking her emotions and America can tell that she refrains for saying how much she must wish to enjoy them. It's enough to feel some pity for her.

It's nearly an hour later when a third party joins them. She's a tiny creature, very pale and fragile looking. Her long hair is left loose and she dresses in a deep red gown with many folds and accented with black lace. The color causes her complexion to be paler in appearance, America is sure, though perhaps in the way her sister regards the sun, this one is more inclined to the night.

"Sister," Ukraine greets. "We have a guest, isn't that wonderful? Please, Miss Kirkland, this is my sister Belarus. Sister, this is Kassandra Kirkland from Albia."

America already knows her. Belarus Braginsky's file is only a little less grand than her brother's. She has already come into this house knowing to be wary of the youngest of the siblings as she is known for her violent temper in their ranks. At first, she had meant to act with much civility while in disguise, but the clear look of disdain sent her way as well as the sneer showing boldly on the other's face when being introduced shows an immediate dislike.

This is clearly not going to be easy…

"Brother has sent me to announce that dinner is being served," she says in lieu of a greeting.

America by all means has the right to appear put off, and from the looks of it Ukraine is not at all pleased with her behavior.

"Belarus, please," she pleads but it falls on deaf ears.

She is gone in an instant, and America is ready to comfort Ukraine and excuse the slight for her benefit as she sags into her seat. She is not given the opportunity though. She rises soon after, and America follows suit. They both make their way to the dining room with Ukraine apologizing for her sister's behavior and America dismisses the event. By the time they take their seats, they are fast friends again.

When they are seated, Russia joins them only seconds later. As for Belarus, it is nearly ten minutes later before they can dine.

"I sent you to fetch your sister and our guest," says Russia. "You should have been the first to arrive, Belarus, it's quite rude."

"Now, there's no reason to quarrel in front of our guest." Ukraine does her best to placate the situation. "I'm sure she has been preoccupied with something of great importance. Belarus, is that right?"

"I have been in the kitchen," is all she says, and holds America's gaze as she answers.

There is something in that statement that she does not like one bit, but without any real reason to comment on it, America lets it go.

Instead, when the opportunity arises she continues the conversation with Ukraine from before and comes to find that she may genuinely be interested in her as their talk grows more personal despite the added company.

"But you are so far from home," Ukraine says. "And in such a small town, why on earth would travel out here?"

"To visit my mother, of course," America laughs. "It has been so long since I have seen her, and letters are not enough anymore. It was quite spontaneous, I will admit."

The answer amuses the older two, but she gets no small laugh from the youngest sitting across from her.

"What respectable young lady does not live with her mother?" asks Belarus.

The question catches America off-guard slightly and she takes a moment to refrain for making a sardonic comment on the insinuation of her upbringing, which as always bears some commentary to her mother's skills as such. While America may have lost such a figure early in her life, it's the principle of the matter.

She takes a quick sip of her glass and as she sets it back on the table top gently says, "My mother's husband did not take kindly to me. It was decided for me to stay with my uncle and younger brother, and it's been a very agreeable situation for all parties."

The table goes silent. From the corner of her eye, America can see the pointed stare Russia gives his sister. Though if anything, it only has the distasteful look she gives America grow all the more.

"Your mother has taken to remarry, then?" Ukraine politely asks.

America happily turns her attentions towards the eldest. "Yes, and it has been a good match for her. We are all pleased."

From then on the conversation is kept light, and while the youngest member of this family continues to make her dislike for America well known throughout, another argument does not come from it. When the plates have been cleared, and an hour or so has been spent playing charades in an unused parlor meant for entertainment, Ukraine is asked to show America to her room. It's only here that America remembers what it is her hosts really are, and despite the hospitality being shown to her, she is on a mission and must remember such.

Russia takes her hand before she leaves the room. America's heart nearly skips a beat at the sudden form of familiarity, and she's near pulling it back as quickly as it's taken into her hold if wasn't for her sudden remembrance of discretion.

He places a soft kiss to the back of her palm, and wishes her a good night. She thanks him, and does not comment on the door slamming behind them from where Belarus has disappeared through.

When they reach her room, America thanks Ukraine for her hospitality and keeps the grateful smile plastered on her face until the other woman closes the door behind her. America sighs the moment she is finally alone. In all honesty, she has nothing against Ukraine, who has been nothing but kind to her from the second they have been introduced and genuinely seems to be a considerate individual despite the status of her mortality. All things considered, for such a kind woman, America has no qualms in befriending her had the situation been different. Belarus on the other hand... Well, America certainly wouldn't mind coming across her in a fight, anything for an opportunity to wipe the persistent dirty look she'd given her all through dinner off from the youngest face.

America shakes her head clear of the thoughts. There's no sense in entertaining such notions, as amusing as they may be, not when there's work to be done. She crosses to her luggage and hoists it onto the large bed provided, digging through the contents of spare clothing and food rations at once for the black bag buried beneath. Once she finds it, she opens it immediately and can't help the small smile at her beloved weaponry, a very specific set that England had crafted for her, the same one that Canada had helped with her training with becoming accustomed.

It's with these memories that cause her to be more determined as she lines the inside of her coat with wooden stakes, that fuels her purpose in placing herself in such a dangerous place as she loops in her holster to her belt with loaded pistol and attaches other instruments for her disposal. She sheaths a hunting blade into her boot, careful to tuck it into the folds of leather kept between the sturdy cotton of her trousers and the lacings. She loops a lengthy piece of rope into her belt, tucks a few vials of holy water into her back pockets, and climbs on top of the bed. She positions herself with her back straight up against the headboard, keeps her eyes fixed on the door, and waits...

and waits...

and waits...

and waits...

and waits for hours on end, until it nears dawn, and despite the slight drooping of her eyelids, she forces herself to remain alert and completely focused. America rises from her position and with quiet steps, makes her way for the door.

She opens it, swiftly and with minimum sound, and listens for any movement. America hears nothing but the sound of hallway torches flickering as their embers begin to die and small drips of water from the morning dew of moss growing in the edging of the ceiling hit the stone flooring. She takes a cautious step out of the confines of the bedroom, anticipating some sort of premeditated ambush should she leave the chamber earlier than anticipated. When nothing of the kind occurs, America emerges completely and shuts the door.

There's still so very little light, and using her instincts, America reaches for a set of spectacles with many different shades of lenses attached from her belt and hooks them behind her ears none too delicately. She flips through the lenses, selects the pair that enables her to see through the darkness more clearly and cautiously, she moves through the memorized corridors, finding her way back to the foyer with using the main staircases and instantly makes for the same route that was used for the dining room. She branches off to search for the kitchens, thinking (highly suspecting) that it will lead her to be where it is she needs.

Suddenly though, she hears voices, Lithuania and Estonia to be precise and looks for somewhere to hide. She instantly finds a hanging tapestry, and there being not much else for options, lifts the side of it and dashes behind. Once there, America is pleasantly surprised to find that behind the tapestry is an alcove nicked into the wall deep enough to emerge herself completely in shadow and does so hastily.

"I wish Miss Ukraine was not so self-conscious of eating in front of the others," she hears Estonia sigh. "The cleaning would be a lot easier."

"They were going to be messy today in any case," Lithuania says, resigned. "You must remember, their breakfast consisted of actual food."

"Yes, Miss Belarus was not at all happy about that."

"And is not still." Lithuania sighs this time, from what she gathers. "That poor boy does not deserve such treatment."

"Neither does Latvia, she should not force him to bear witness to her cruelty."

"She will have to let him go soon. Dawn is nearing, she'll need to ready herself for sleep."

Their footsteps echo away, along with their soft mutterings, unaware of where America stood as she attempted to regain her collected calm. She couldn't help over thinking what she has just overheard though, the fact that they only mentioned one individual instead of two. One. Not two.

One.

_That poor boy..._

There's a sudden rush of white noise flushing America's ears and she has to clamp over them to dull it out, keep from overloading her senses because even if what she fears is actually true there is still someone who needs her.

America breaks away from her hiding place and sprints down the hallway to where she had first heard the two emerge. She finds it easily enough, an expansive kitchen meant to hold a multitude of servants scrubbed within an inch of its life and yet still had the heady scent of blood thick in the air and clinging to the hardwood floor. She almost gags on it, but continues to press forward, looking for something that'll give it away.

She comes to a complete stop in the very center of the room, closes her eyes, and forces herself past the one aspect of her senses that is being overwhelmed. She remains quiet and vigilant, forcing her hearing to pick up every little sound, ever drip of water, ever scurrying rodent, every insect that twitches, everything, waiting, for that one sound. She knows it's here, it has to be here, and Belarus was too smug at the table when relaying her location.

That in itself should be a cause for worry, all things considering. America's identity and direct relation to whom she's seeking shouldn't be well known, and if America would stop to think it over, she could realize that there had been something wrong in that expression, that its arrogance stemmed from the obvious conclusion that it held far too much information.

She doesn't though. No, America does not think any of this over, because there! That's the sound!

It's a scream.

Muffled.

Barricaded.

There, right beneath the floorboards, it's underneath!

America drops to the floor, crawling on hands and knees and searches, pressing her palms flat against the surface in search of hollow space. The grains of wood press into her skin, and below them she can sense the stone foundation, the heavy feel of rock sifting through the boards resting on top and uses that to find her way. She shimmies, careful not to rush lest she overlook a telling piece of evidence. It takes several minutes and a lot of covered ground, but America finally does find something, and when she knocks lightly against it only to hear the dull echo of empty space beneath, she readjusts the lenses on her glasses to study the boards in search of an entrance. Upon lifting the floorboards away, America finds a stone staircase spiraling downwards and does not hesitate in taking the first step.

It's colder the further down she travels, and the chill is bitter enough to be comparable to the snowfall just outside. When she comes to the landing, she finds herself in a small corridor. She's grown accustomed to the vision and her focus grows sharper behind her lenses. She immediately spots the door left open off to the side. There's no mistake that the scream she's heard earlier comes from there.

America approaches carefully, her senses on fully alert, and peers into the room.

Inside is a large chamber made entirely from stone. It houses an array of torture devices she's only seen in text books during her training days and in store rooms of Headquarters, but never those collected for… personal use. She adjusts her lenses, brings down a certain pair and isn't able to hold back a gasp at the sight of brightly lit splatters that cover not only the machines, but the floor, the walls, and – because of one curious look upwards – the ceiling.

From further back there is the sound of chains rattling, and a soft groan accompanies. It reminds her why she's here, and there certainly is no time to stand around morbidly marveling at the bloodshed that has happened here. She fixes her glasses again, reverting them back to normal so as to not be distracted, and steps into the room.

Her footstep is light, and yet echoes slightly all the same. It has her pause and rethink her course of action, but her senses show that she is alone in this room save for the other person in obvious need of rescuing. The comfort is shallow at best, and yet it keeps her going.

She walks lightly and quickly. She's only halfway through the room when she finally spots the hanging figure against the wall. The shackles latched around his wrist dangle from the ceiling, short enough to keep his impressive height from reaching the floor. The wounds dragged down his chest right down to his hips are still bleeding. He's been left half dressed, dirty, and for the second time that night America gasps because there is no denying who this person is. She would recognize him anywhere.

Afterwards her own discretion is thrown aside. America breaks out into a sprint and is at a loss as to what to do when she finds herself in front of the bloodied body of her brother. She moves to cup his cheek and her heart breaks when he flinches from her touch.

"Canada," she whispers. "Canada, it's me. It's America. I came looking for you."

America watches as his dried, cracked lips part. She doesn't know to what forms of torture he's been subjected, but the fact that her little brother is unable to lift his head ignites a personal rage against her hosts. This is not something she will easily let go, not even when they will find themselves back home, safe and sound.

"America," he finally says.

His voice is grainy and hoarse. It's like sandpaper to America's ears and nearly has her tear up.

"No," he chokes out and sounds as if he's holding back a sob. "Not again. I'm not- not gonna fall for it again."

"No," she says urgently. "No. No, no, no, no, it's me. It's me, Canada, it's me. The council lost your trace, the last scroll England had sent was an SOS, but they were not able to locate either of you. They declared you'd been taken, and were not going to send rescue. So I came. I came looking for you, and I'm sorry I took so long. Canada, it's me please."

She takes her brother's face into her hands, lifts his head, and touches every bit of him. She doesn't know if he'll be able to see her in the darkness. She looks around in desperation for some kind of torch, anything that would give them light, but finds nothing there.

It's an amateur mistake to make, and having as much experience every instinct in her is yelling at her but she lets Canada go and removes her glasses. She places the as carefully as she can on the bridge of her brother's nose.

"Can you see me?" she asks. "Canada, you know these are mine, you know this is me. Wait."

She fumbles with the front of her shirt. She undoes the first couple of buttons and reaches in to pull out a small wooden ornament hanging from a new gold chain. America holds it carefully between two fingers and cups her brother's chin, making him look at it.

"Mom's charm," she says. "What she kept around her before she died. You remember when she gave it to me, you know that I never take it off. Canada?"

Canada's lips part again and he takes in a shaky breath. She isn't able to see his eyes tear up but she does see the few that spill over and fall down his cheeks.

"America… America, they… Uncle England…"

"Where is he?" she asks and lets him go. His head drops once more but she can't really do much when having to move in the dark now. She unzips a pouch and feels through for her lock pick. It'll be much harder now without her vision, but not totally impossible. "Where's England?"

"He's dead, America. Uncle England's dead."

America pauses. The lock pick is in her hand but she can't bring herself to move. Her eyes dart to look to Canada, who in turn has revived if only enough to lift his own head and hold it up.

"He's dead," she repeats. "Dead… You're sure."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything, I tried but she's quick and- She's back! America, she's back!"

Because she has been so focused on not only rescuing her brother, but with the news of England's death have kept her distracted enough that she hasn't even been paying attention to what may be lurking in the shadows around them. America is just barely able to duck away in time to avoid what sounds like a dagger slicing through the air. She may not have the clear vision she had with her glasses, but Belarus is pale enough in the darkness of the room that she has a small glow to her, and for that America is thankful.

It will make this fight a little easier.

From her back pocket, America brings forth the vials of holy water and uncaps them with her thumbs. Silently, and quite vicious looking, Belarus comes at her directly for an attack. America unleashes the water on to her. There's a loud hissing noise as well as the sudden stench of burnt flesh as the water makes contact with the back of her hand. She had been aiming for the vampire's face, but Belarus had been quick in shielding herself and does not seem at all fazed by the painful red splotch marring her porcelain skin.

"If that is the best you are able to do," she says. "Then I have already won."

America reaches for the pistols resting in their holsters. With the both firmly in her hold, she clicks back the hammer of each one.

"My career would be in serious trouble if that was all I could do."

She can see Belarus' lip pull back in a dangerous smirk. She shows off a fang, and pulls into a snarl as she lunges once more.

If it's one aspect in her field work that America has always been proud of it's her marksmanship. Top of her class, and proficient in action, she rarely misses her target. However, Belarus Braginsky, for all she has read on the woman, is a lot more dexterous and has more speed to her then she has accounted. No matter the predictions she makes, America is unable to hit her as a target.

The bullets hit the stone floor as she dodges each on and approaches. America makes use of the many objects hidden in the room. Her determination in itself is enough for her to force her eyes to adjust to these conditions, she honestly believes that it is her will that allows her to sense where things are located. She crouches behind a large coffin like item, most likely an iron maiden, and waits for her attack.

Her ammunition is limited, there will not be enough time to reload, she knows. So, she'll make the best of what she can.

Belarus creeps upon her from the opposite side, and it's near sheer dumb luck that America spots her from the corner of her eye. With the dagger hanging above her, she makes to have it come crashing down. America kicks out from under her, catches the other woman in surprise and sends her falling backwards. The blade catches on her trousers, tears a large gash down the side and rips open her skin. The metallic scent of blood fills the air and a low growl fills the room.

America takes Belarus' distraction and fires off at her. She does not hit where she meant to target, but with her slowed reflexes one does catch into her shoulder and is lodged there if Belarus' shrieks are to go by anything.

"I will kill you!" she screams.

Her wail is piercing as she tears into her own flesh. America's bullets will not kill her instantly, but the silver will burn into her and fill her with toxins that left will do major harm. While she goes about trying to remove it, America stands. She reaches in and grabs her own dagger from the inside of her boot. She grips it tight, and she charges.

Belarus does not miss this. She halts her own movements to reach into the folds of her gown and unleashes a small army of miniature knives. One nicks the side of her face, another lands into her thigh, but America is able to fend off the rest. She aims for her heart, Belarus comes to block. Both daggers are locked and their eyes narrow into one another's.

"I will kill you," she promises. "

"I haven't lost a fight yet," America tells her. "You sure as all are not gonna be my first!"

"Don't be so arrogant!"

Belarus throws her back and charges.

"You won't take him away from me!" she cries and throws herself at the other woman.

America is able to block and evade, but with her injured leg her movements are slowing just as Belarus seems to be as well. While she does put up a good fight, she loses the upper hand when Belarus comes to use her injury against her. She kicks her knee inward, and America falls to the floor with a startled cry.

Belarus pins her to the floor, straddles her stomach and keeps her from moving. America flails, struggles, does not let up in an attempt to free herself. Though Belarus is relentless, and she grips onto the woman's wrists with such strength and holds her down that America believes she will snap as if she was nothing more than a twig.

"I don't care," she says. "I don't care what he wants, or what he says, or the punishment he will deal to me, you do not deserve him."

America feels her nails lengthen against her skin and kicks her legs. She will not lose, she will not end this way!

It's almost as if she had conjured a saving grace. Suddenly, Belarus goes flying from her. She drags America with her partly as she's jerked back and is sent hurtling into a wall. Her absolute scream of terror is the proof she has to know it was not planned. America wastes no time in righting herself, but just as quickly as she has been freed, she's pushed down again. Only this time, it is Russia Braginsky that has the honor.

America flails for her fallen dagger and just as before, her arm is taken and pinned down to the floor. She can hear Canada calling out for her to be left alone in the background, but only faintly. She's more focused on the man's face coming closer to hers. It's mostly out of shock that she remains so still.

"America Jones," he says. "I want you alive."

America, wide-eyed and feeling fear for the first time in a long time, is unable to do anything other than brace herself for the sudden impact of a blunt object hitting the side of her head. The force has her spin. There's nothing after that.

Her first loss.

**xxx**

-i know i have a journal filled with things for this world. there's a lot of world building. so much that i considered making it an original fic instead.

-sometimes i still think that.

-most of the time though i toss the idea aside because y'know. vampires.


	4. Track 4

Notes: nyotalia characters, kinda smutty.

**xxx**  
**Drowning Lessons**  
**xxx**

She's not meant to be here. An invitation to the event is all that's been extended to her and little else. This exhibition of Amelia's sister and "proper" friends fawning over the blushing bride dressed in white satin and chiffon is something meant for the eyes of others not emotionally involved.

How beautiful she is though. Not for the first time does Anya feel the gut wrenching sensation of jealousy twist at her insides and consume her whole.

The feeling distracts her, and she's almost caught spying. For a brief moment Anyway catches Matilda's eye and quickly pulls herself back. She presses herself flat against the wall, next to the door frame, and waits with bated breath. The seconds tick by though, and no one comes to approach her. She cautiously peaks over again and see that nothing has changed.

Sitting in front of the provided vanity in their dressing room is Amelia, and behind her is Elizaveta working her small amount of hair into tight curls with an iron in hand. Every now and then she hands it to Lily, and in turn it's placed for a small bit of time in front of the small fire they have going in the pot belly stove.

Anya hears Monika make a comment about the heat. The others laugh as Amelia mentions the other blonde's cropped hair that is far shorter than any of theirs. If anyone, she should have no worries about feeling the heat as terribly as them.

"It's the bridesmaids' duty to deal with all things," says Elizaveta and points for Lily to return the iron to her. "So that the bride can look perfect in every way. It's the natural order of things."

"Says the woman who boxes on rooftops," Amelia points out.

"I have a very hot instrument in my hands, Mia, don't tempt me."

They laugh again, and this time Lily speaks up and mentions something in a low tone that is too quiet for Anya to hear properly. Whatever it is, it has them all quiet down for a moment and look expectantly to Amelia. She can see her reflection in the mirror; her father insisted she be makeup-less but there is a light powder dusted over her features and a bit of mascara clumped on her eyelashes. Her lips are parted slightly, and her eyes are wide and look glossy. It takes some time for her to gather herself, and when she does, she closes her eyes for the longest time and opens them again to look almost watery and licks at her lips.

"I'm grateful to you all for being here with me," she says and her voice sounds tight. "I really am blessed.. to have friends like all of you. Especially you, Mattie."

She turns away from Elizaveta's touch, shift in her seat to face her sister and says, "Thank you. You've done, so much for me, and I've always.. taken advantage of that."

Amelia reaches for her sister's hand and Mattie gives it to her. She gives her both and looks as if she's about to cry herself.

"You're my sister," Matilda says. "I would do anything for you."

"I know," Amelia replies and sure enough a tear spills over and rolls down her cheek. "And I want to do anything for you, too."

"Mia..."

Matilda's eyes darts towards Anya's direction, and in turn she pulls back but does not hide completely. It's obvious to her now that she's been spotted, and if Matilda had the inclination to turn her in, she would have done so already. Instead, the moment between them lingers to the point where she is unable to reply properly, and tears fall down her own cheeks. It's Monika that interrupts them and gives Matilda her own personal handkerchief.

"You're both going to make us all cry. Poor Lily already has red eyes."

"I do not!"

"It's alright," Elizaveta tells her. "I'm sure I do too."

With a small sniffle, she pulls Amelia back to her. "Come on then, Mia. You're gonna ruin your makeup and we still need to finish your hair."

Amelia follows her without a word, and after having her face dried and retouched a bit, the room is smiling again. The girls finish their own last minute touch ups, don their hats, and when Amelia's hair has been curled and pinned to Elizaveta's standards, they all gather around to witness her putting on her veil.

It's at this point that Anya as well, leans in closer and watches. It's a fine piece, with a pearled headdress that is extravagant looking in all of it's simplicity. The beaded tulle reaches the mid of her back, the lace embellishments brush up against the small dip hidden by the loose fitting gown, but Anya can tell.

She knows the spot well.

"My brother is lucky to have you," says Monika. "And I'm lucky to be able to call you sister. Both of you, Matilda, you as well."

Amelia beams at her and surprises her with a large hug. "Come here, Mattie, join us! We're gonna be a family soon!"

Matilda does join them, but while she does smile as she's included, to Anya it looks a little strange. The others don't seem to notice as much, as both Elizaveta and Lily smile and bask in their own happiness at the scene. When they do part, it's Monika that appears to be on the verge of tears, and this time Amelia makes her own comment and the group of women descend into laughter.

Without having to worry much about tear tracks, Monika wipes at her eyes and says, "We should be heading out now. The ceremony will start soon and we'll need to get in position for the march."

The others agree, and after Amelia says that she'll be along in a few more minutes.

"I need to calm myself down!" she says and waves them off. "I'll be out before the ceremony starts, don't worry."

"Don't go getting cold feet on us now," Elizaveta laughs and one by one the girls file out of the room.

Anya presses herself against the wall, hoping that not one of them will turn around and notice her as they exit. Each woman is busy making some comment to another, adjusting their hats, or smoothing out their gowns as the walk off into the direction of the front of the church. Matilda though, hangs back and remains still as the other three go on. Anya can feel her heart beat speed up, she can even here herself gulp. Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around...

Matilda turns around. Her own violet colored eyes seek out Anya's and she doesn't look happy at all in this moment. A frown tugs at her lips, her brow is worried, and her eyes appear too sad for a joyous occasion. There is nothing said, and it's a wonder that no one has noticed her missing from the party already gone. She's just about to ask why, when Matilda speaks first.

"I'm sorry," she says and hurries away.

Anya is left speechless. So little words have been said but their meaning hits her harder than she would like. Not for the first time does she feel her throat threaten to swell up with overwhelming emotion. She begins to feel a bit claustrophobic, too anxious, and she bites hard at her lip to keep from crying. It's suffocating outside, and so with that in mind, she makes the choice to enter the room.

Her heels click against the marble floor and call Amelia's attention. She had sat down before the vanity again, but instead of fixing her appearance, she had been staring at the wooden surface covered in cosmetics and combs. When her eyes catch Anya's reflection in the mirror, they go wide and she gasps. She rises from her seat and turns the the other woman, and say nothing at all.

It feels like an eternity stretches out before them where they are incapable of doing nothing more than stare at each other.

"You look beautiful, Mia," Anya finally says. Her voice is tight and her mouth is dry.

For the first time in all their history together, Amelia looks down to to her outfit and almost seems self-conscious of what she wears. She places her hands against her stomach and grips at the fabric.

"Thank you," she says and doesn't meet her eyes.

Her tongue pokes out and runs against her bottom lip. Anya follows the motion, wants to pull her in close and smother her a kiss, wants to feel it pressed against her own once more.

She steps forward and Amelia clenches her dress harder and stumbles back. It pauses Anya's movements, keeps her still as her heart breaks all over again.

"You should be here," Amelia tells her. "You should be... in the church. I invited your sisters too, so I hope they're here. My father was against the idea, but you've been my friend for so long, and Katerina has always been so kind to me. Although, I don't think Natalya would be here, to be completely honest. Well, if I'm completely honest, I didn't think you'd.. be here.. either."

"You're babbling."

"I am, aren't I?" she asks and almost sounds hysterical. "I'm- ahm. Surprised? Surprised, yes. Surprised."

Anya approaches her again, and this time Amelia does not run. Her hand comes up to cup the side of her face, and Amelia closes her eyes. She leans into the touch, and tears appear beneath her lashes once more. The sight is almost too much to bear. How often before have they found themselves in this position? When curtains have been drawn and only the leftover clothing that had yet to be shed separating them from feeling the warm skin of the other...

"You shouldn't be here," Amelia repeats with her pained and cracking voice.

"Where else should I be?" asks Anya. "If not here?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere that.. doesn't make this harder than it is."

"What if I were to say, that despite hurting me as well, I would not want to be anywhere else then here? In this moment? With you?"

America lets go of the fabric of her gown. One hand comes to press against the one Anya has resting against her cheek and tears spill out from the corner of her eyes. One catches against Anya's fingers and she's unable to hold back. Her arm reaches around Amelia's waist and pulls her in close. She tilts her head down and presses her lips against hers. It had been meant as a tender touch, something in comfort, but Amelia pushes against her. She tangles her hands in Anya's hair and pulls her deeper into a kiss that unleashes the bottled up emotions she's buried deep inside of her for this day.

Anya swallows her moan when she prods open her mouth. She relishes in the pain of having her hair pulled suddenly and how it sparks excitement and ignites a fire in her belly that never fails to live with the woman in her arms. She walks them back until Amelia hits the vanity. The makeup, the combs, and pins, and everything else are swiped away and go crashing to the floor. Anya lifts her up and sits her down, spreads her legs and presses into her, molds them close and plants small kisses against the corners of her lips, her cheeks, her chin.

She reaches down and pushes Amelia's hemline up high above her thighs. Amelia sighs and throws her head back, giving Anya the full length of her neck and sighs prettily as butterfly kisses are pressed against it just as Anya trails her fingers up her legs. She settles her head into the crook of her shoulder, massages the inside of her thigh and smiles into her skin when she feels the shudders of excitement rack through Amelia's body.

"Oh, god," she moans. "Oh, god, I want you. I want you now, so much, right now."

This wasn't what she had intended, at least not knowingly, but Anya is not in the mind to say no. She brings Amelia's head back down, steals her lips and coaxes them open once more to drown in her taste. She makes the mistake of tugging at her veil though, and it's like suddenly being doused with ice water as Amelia goes rigid in her hold and breaks away.

"Stop!" she cries. "Stop, Anya, stop! I... I can't.. I can't. I can't. I can't."

Amelia pushes her away. With enough force to send her stumbling back and slips off the vanity. She lands on shaky legs and almost stumbles away. She looks as if she's about the cry, and even sounds like it with how she takes in small breaths of air as if she means to calm herself down.

"I can't do this," she says. "I have to go."

She says it with conviction, but Anya is not ready to let her go yet.

"There are other ways," she says, "This is a quick solution, but it's not the only one! There are other ways to get money."

She may really, truly mean that, but Amelia only laughs it off.

"Maybe. But... this was always going to happen anyway wasn't it? We were always gonna be married off for some reason or other so... why not?"

"That's not true. It doesn't have to be true. Mia, we can find a way to save your family. We can find one together. You don't need to marry him."

Amelia, for as hopeful as she once was, does not seem convinced.

"They'll be looking for me," she says. "I.. I should get going."

She doesn't look at her. She brushes her gown down and keeps her eyes planted firmly to the floor, even as she turns away to leave. It's futile, maybe, but Anya does call out to her, and even if it would have been smarter to ignore her, Amelia does listen.

"Don't... Please, don't. Don't go..."

Amelia sighs heavily. She tilts her head upward and pats at her cheeks to dry them. Anya knows, that despite her pleas and Amelia's own feelings, nothing is going to change. She is going to walk out the door, and down the aisle, and in little more than an hour's time she will no longer be Amelia Jones. She will no longer be the best friend that danced with her all night in the height of their youth, nor the lover that pressed kisses over every little inch of her body behind closed doors and away from prying eyes. She will no longer be hers, she's already known this.

When she does leave the room, though...

When she does walk out the door...

It doesn't hurt any less...

**xxx**

**-**this was from an excerpt of a longer ch fic set in the 1920's from ... idk four years ago?

-i don't remember why i tossed it out but here's a small scene from that abandoned project


End file.
